


He who fights monsters

by TheVelvetOverhead



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Corruption, Drug Use, Good boy gone bad, In which Preston becomes the Overboss, Multi, Nuka world dlc, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Raiders, Seduction to the Dark Side, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVelvetOverhead/pseuds/TheVelvetOverhead
Summary: After Quincy's massacre, a disillusioned and suicidal Preston arrives to Nuka World. There, he decides to end with Colter's Reign of Terror and rebuild the Minutemen from scratch.Little he knows that if you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.





	1. Chapter 1

It all happened very quickly at a dizzying speed. Everything felt so connected yet so detached—images abruptly flashing before his eyes, making him unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Though, perhaps, more than in a reverie, Preston Garvey thought he was absorbed in a nightmare.

He coughed as a crimson mist clouded his vision—beams of orange lights and colours swirled in front of him and his chest burned like nuclear fire. He felt the world cracking under his feet and thought that the very same stifling and thick air that filled his lungs were flames from Hell itself. His heart was beating wildly and he could feel his nerves snap as if he were on a roller coaster— _spinning around faster, higher, with a new twist—_ before rushing into emptiness.

They had barely recovered from the first attack when the second wave arrived. And like an untamed tsunami, the Gunners had wiped out everything in their path. Lifeless bodies and rotting corpses floated in that sea of fire and brimstone; desperate cries asking for help drowned in a whirlwind of psychosis and destruction.

It was as if he had crossed the gates of death and got lost in the depths of the most perilous hidden labyrinth of the human psyche. It was unheard of and crazy, totally crazy.

God damn it! A month ago, there were hundreds. Hours ago, not even thirty. Now, only God knew. First it was General’s Becker death five years ago and all the internal strife that came along with it. Now this mess.

The young Minuteman remained in the same position for a long time, his back to the cold brick wall. He did not move nor he said anything. He did not even blink. The noises came from the opposite building, but they had stopped long ago. He narrowed his eyes and tried to sharpen his ear, looking for the sound of a shoe scraping on pavement, the click of a trigger being cocked or some breathing that was not his. _Anything!_ That allegedly loneliness was killing him. He felt a lacerating pain in his chest and an oppressive anguish at the gradual lack of oxygen.

 _Don’t faint_ , he thought as he clumsily stood. _Shape up, Preston!_

The man slipped up to his feet, stumbling in his heavy boots, until he obtained a better angle on the fight. He raised his head towards the esplanade in from of him and soon he regretted having done so. It was from that exact spot, from the darkness of that corner located between Coddington and Washington Streets, directly across the street from Quincy's United First Parish Church, where Preston saw it all.

 

_**Damn… We never stood a chance, did we?** _

 

Cornered. Murdered. Butchered. Crushed mercilessly, as if they were mere and insignificant bloatflies.

All dead, all dead; and gone—even Colonel Hollis.

An immense anguish invaded each inch of his being and he felt he lacked the absolute sense of control over his body. He sank down to the cool tile and curled up like a fetus, hugging his legs close to his chest while trying to catch his breath. A cold sensation ran through his body—he could almost feel it climbing up his spine and digging into his neck tighter and tighter like an iron grip. It was a feeling that had remained buried, hidden and ignored in his unconscious mind since he first arrived to Quincy several hours ago: **despair**.

He swallowed, trying to settle his stomach and relieve the painful knot in his chest. A cold layer of sweat bathed his body, making him tremble. Fear overwhelmed him and his lungs burned; his heart racing with desolation.

Then he realized that he could not endure it any longer.

He ran. He ran until he was out of breath. He ran until his legs failed and fled like a scared rad rabbit. Without wasting a second, the young man left behind the city that had once been one of the most important settlements of the Commonwealth Minutemen. He dodged and evaded all the obstacles that stood in his way, including the remains of his late companions, which he eluded as if they were the enemy’s own.

And thus, Preston Garvey stopped caring about anything and everything—neither present not future. Why bother? It was pointless. After all, there were no Minutemen left whom he could share it with.

 

##

 

He could see his breath coming out in short puffs right in front of his face just to disappear seconds later. The cool air caressed his body, sending goose bumps all over his naked flesh. Preston gave a choked groan and began to rub his arms with his stiff hands in order to stop the shivers. Then began to more quickly around the ramshackle room. Even in the daytime, the room remained cold and dark, as wooden planks boarded the windows, preventing any ray of light—any warmth—to slip through the gnawed crochet and lace curtains. He tried to breathe more deeply and more slowly in an attempt to calm himself down. He only ended up throwing up.

Several days had passed since the Quincy Massacre, but Preston still vividly remembered the day; how fear took over the streets and how blood stained his memories, marking him forever. He blinked, trying to erase that unpleasant vivid colour from his retina. He ended up encountering an impenetrable black that engulfed everything around him.

Then he remembered. He remembered how he had run as far as his legs had taken him, giving him a new life full of opportunities. He had managed to get away from the wolf’s grip unharmed and had escaped from Hell and lived to tell it all. The room may be cavernous and chilly, but he was still alive. Alive. That's what it was about. Those were the demons that refused to let him go.

Preston was alive—he was the only one that had survived.

All thanks to a mean and cowardly act.

 

And then, on that cold winter morning, Preston looked at the crumpled uniform in the far corner for the last time. And so, the young man who had once dreamed of being like his childhood heroes, stared at the rope hanging from a ceiling beam.

He took a step forward. And another. And then climbed a step. And another one, until the fibrous strands bit into the tender skin of his neck.

With one last breath, he let his weight fall, plunging into the abyss, thus allowing the rope to strangle his existence and his world, his pain and his pathos, his essence and his being—his cowardice.

The world didn’t need people like him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I was supposed to write another chapter for my other fic; but this prompt had been building inside my crazy head for weeks. I love when characters start with good intentions but lose themselves along the way; don't you?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this was going to be much longer, but I decided to split it in two different chapters as all the text is mostly descriptive and I didn’t want to bore anyone :p
> 
> Moreover, I’m quite impatient and I have yet to go over some parts of the to be third chapter, but I wanted to update something...!! So, in the meantime, here you go! (Can’t wait to get to Nuka World, really. I promise that, when we get there, we will have more dialogue!).

_The radio was still playing, but Preston was so concentrated that he couldn’t make out what the song was about as he tied the belt around his own arm tightly. His eyes roamed over the expanse of his forearm, where his favourite vein was ready and waiting for the rush of a fresh hit. Swollen and enlarged, purplish and lumpy. And twisted, like the craggy and difficult topography of a dirt road. A path that apparently led to nowhere, with crumbling wishes and shattered dreams that loomed up on either side of the curvaceous artery. And then, at the end of that very same road, the prize he had been looking for: the obscene lump that stood out like the big red “X” on a treasure map. He tapped the needle into it and watched the first bubble of dark red blood flowing quickly into the syringe. The young man closed his eyes, his senses only aware of the hit and his stomach shaking with anticipation._

_He leaned, resting the top of his head against the wall. His movements slow, his breath coming in soft gasps, sweat oozing from his skin and the air around him chilly and damp, brushing against his flesh and sending goose bumps down his neck. Preston chuckled, smiling as broadly as possible, his head bobbing and bouncing, back and forth. It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened. In fact, nothing had happened, he told himself over and over again. His head kept swinging, his face still grinning and his laughter getting louder and louder. He hadn’t witnessed Colonel Hollis’ death—he hadn’t see it, so it hadn’t happened._

_It definitely hadn’t._

##

 

Preston blinked. One. Two. Three. And then slapped himself across the face. His now thin, bony fingers felt big and light and fat, like two balloons that exploded as soon as they made contact with the withered skin on his cheeks. A sudden and piercing _beep, beep, beep_ emanated from deep within him—so loud the young man shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his fragile ears, deafening everything around except the damned beeping that enveloped him. Now, that noise wasn’t new at all; in fact, it had always been there. It had been rumbling at the back of his head for, like, one hour already. Ripping through his skull since the needle pierced his skin, and cool, heavy liquid flooded the veins on his arm.

He gently, carefully parted his mouth—slowly, very very slowly, so as not to crack his already chapped lips—and shallowed, then ran his fingers along the crooked and angry furrow around his neck. It made him shiver. Pain was no longer there but, instead, it had the courtesy of leaving behind a subtle and sweet reminder of what happens when you play with fire or, rather, with a rope not tense enough. Preston caressed the red and hideous mark with soft strokes and trembled; the air around him was wintry and sharp, making his own breath ghost in small whiffs. He blinked again, cold fingertips against warm skin and salty drops of sweat running down his forehead. He shallowed once more, this time hard and looked ahead, focusing on the road and gradually becoming aware of his surroundings.

He was out there, in the middle of nowhere, in the dangerous wilderness of that uncaring wasteland where monsters and deadly creatures roamed freely. He wandered aimlessly, with no direction or destination in mind. Walking had become something mechanical for him, a futile and routine gesture to which his body had become accustomed. Walking, drinking, breathing, feeling. They were nothing but mere repetitive actions that lacked any meaning. Sometimes he wondered if the original Preston had been replaced by a synth. Most of the time he wished so; he would accept anything just to explain that emptiness inside him. He looked up, his chocolate eyes fixed on the sky as the rain sprinkled his face with little drops that mingled with the cold sweat of his forehead.

The rain intensified almost immediately, strong and insistent to finally subside to a steady and prolonged drizzle. The young man adjusted his threadbare overcoat that he had scavenged from the abandoned lonely chapel where he had spent the night and resumed his march in quick long steps. The mud reached to his ankles, soaking through his leather boots, and his breath became erratic as he started to feel physically sick and weak. He was soaked to the skin and that greyish cloud seemed to want to follow him to the end of the world. The air was heavy with moisture and, in the distance, bolts of lightning streaked across the black skies, presaging storm. Preston continued walking with great strides, as if he were in a hurry to reach some place that only he knew about. He clenched his teeth and frowned his forehead as he felt the muscles in his legs starting to cramp. And then, he spotted it. His face brightened and a faint smile appeared on his lips. It was just in from of him

 

_Finally, a settlement._

Each step allowed him to analyse in more detail that rustic compound of shacks. It wasn’t large or astonishing; in fact, it was quite rickety in comparison with other settlements he and the Minutemen had worked so hard to build. It was a picturesque mixture of destruction and genesis, a sea of filthy huts in the middle of the apocalypse; rudimentary hovels next to semi-ruined buildings and tents built with zinc sheets, plywood and dirty plastic. It wasn’t exactly the safest place to be, but Preston could not help but wanted to reach it. He felt like a moth attracted to a flame and couldn’t help himself. That sea of shacks was nothing but a luscious and fruitful water garden in the middle of the desert, a nurturing spring nourished by palm trees—a paradise in his tired eyes.

He clutched his shoulder bag tightly and took a large step forward. He stumbled over a rock stranded in that sea of mud and ended up cashing to the ground. Nonetheless, he stood up instantly, almost automatically—as said before, mechanically—and continued. He heard something. Preston shook his head and stepped again and again, listening to that faint sound that suggested human presence, an echo of laughter and shouting that resonated in the night and pierced the air. He took a last and giant step and paused right in front of a crack in the barricade big enough for him to squeeze through, his heart thumping wildly and his throat dry with excitement.

And then, he saw it, he fucking saw it. On the wall right next to him. The paint was already cracked and badly discoloured, but Preston could recognise that silly drawing anywhere. How could he not?

 

_Gunners._

 

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. He tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to respond. Tears began to stream down his face, mingling with the clear water of the rain. That symbol taunted him, mocked him—it reminded him of his cowardice.

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand that maniacal laughter that kept getting louder and louder, interrupting the impotent and profound silence of the wasteland. Nor the memory that his mind tried, unsatisfactory, to alleviate through Med-X.

Deep inside he knew that, even if he wanted, he would never forget Quincy after all.

 

And he would make sure that they wouldn’t forget him either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moreover, I have tumblr, guys! It’s a mix between personal/rock music and fallout.
> 
> Feel free to follow/talk to me, etc; I’d love to have mutuals and talk with all of you! :)
> 
> It's under the same name as in AO3 (thevelvetoverhead)!


End file.
